


Nobody Puts Marco in the Corner

by maddaddam



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Dance, Cheese, Dancing, Dirty Dancing, Dirty Dancing AU, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gift Fic, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, I can't believe that's a preexisting tag, JeanMarco Gift Exchange, Light Angst, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, lots n' lots of cheese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 13:28:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8981830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddaddam/pseuds/maddaddam
Summary: Spending the summer at a Trost resort with his family, Marco Bodt falls in love with the camp's dance instructor, resident delinquent Jean Kirschtein.AKA the Dirty Dancing AU I never thought I'd write but here we are.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shingekinoboyfriends](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shingekinoboyfriends/gifts).



> This is JM Secret Santa present for [shingekinoboyfriends](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shingekinoboyfriends); I hope you like it!!! I hadn't seen Dirty Dancing before this but let's just say it consumed a fair portion of my December this year. I really hope I didn't disappoint :)

I think it was the summer of 1963, when everybody either referred to me as Freckles or Freckled Saint and it never really occurred to me to mind. It was before President Kennedy got shot and definitely before the Beatles became really popular in the States and I threw myself into a British Invasion frenzy….before I set my heart on joining the Peace Corps and before I thought I’d ever meet someone worth loving. 

That was the summer we went to Trost. 

That was the summer I met Jean Kirschtein. 

. 

.. 

… 

“ _Marcooo_ , would you _puh-lease_ hurry up?” 

“Would you _please not pack so many shoes next time?_ ” 

“I need them!” 

“Are you planning on swapping shoes every time you take a breath?” 

“Kids!” Mom manages to cut in, her soft voice shutting us both up instantly in fear of getting lectured. Maria still fixes the older woman with a sour glare, but I know better. I’ve been around long enough to know that back-sassing the woman will only result in pain, suffering, or hours spent pretending to listen to a lecture about that good ‘ol American Dream while Mom paces furiously around the kitchen. 

Maria, on the other hand, is still learning the basic facts of life at the Bodt household. 

“I hope I didn’t just see what I think I saw,” Mom says, stalking towards my younger sister with a hilariously angry expression on her otherwise calm face. I drop the box of shoes I was struggling to carry in preparation for the coming storm. 

“Send me a postcard from the hotel room, I’m gonna go enjoy my sweet, sweet freedom,” I whisper to Maria as I saunter past. It probably looks pretty stupid, seeing as she’s a whole foot shorter than me and leaning down that far just to sass her seems like a waste of precious energy, but the slight crinkle to her freckled nose when she realises she’s about to spend the rest of the day cooped inside the gaudy lodge is it worth it. 

“And where do you think you’re going?” My father’s voice interrupts my celebratory strut away from the beat up old Chevy. I turn on my heel to face him, loafers scraping obnoxiously against the gravel of the resort parking lot. 

“I was going to explore the bountiful opportunities this fair establishment has to offer,” I provide. In reality, I just want to find a building with air conditioning because the humidity is killing me and my button down is starting to feel like glue against my skin. 

My father clicks his tongue at the comment; no doubt unhappy with my smart reply but too exhausted to fight back. It’s a long drive from Jinae to Trost and our car doesn’t have a properly working AC, so the four of us spent the majority of the ride sticking our heads out the windows of the Chev like dogs as it cut through the countryside. 

“Be back at the dining hall by six,” he tells me and I nod, striking out across the green towards an assortment of wooden buildings. I can feel Maria’s vengeful glare burning holes in my back as I jog away. It feels great. 

A gaggle of men and women in polo shirts rush by me as I slow to a leisurely walk a few steps later; all of them adorned with anxious smiles and the dark blue and white logo of the resort. Some of them grin as I amble by, but most are too focused on frantically getting the resort ready for the upcoming summer season. One man even sprints past me pushing a motorless lawn mower down the green - huffing as he runs. 

Several wooden gazebos and long brick buildings sit peacefully across the lawn from me and I adjust my course until I’m trodding along the gravel path connecting the various amenities. The closer I get, the cooler it feels. It must be because the resort can actually afford air conditioning. If only our Chev had that luxury. 

I cautiously approach the building nearest to me, trying my best to pretend I’m not blatantly listening to the shouts and commands coming from just past the building’s open door. The whole thing looks rather unremarkable - just a long brick structure without any windows, so I figure it probably isn’t intended for guest usage. But the shouting and sound of stomping feet coming from inside is more interesting than the abandoned gazebos lining the green, so I decide to give it a shot. 

“No funny business this year,” a commanding voice says, I can only imagine the icy stare that must accompany it and shudder at the authoritative tone even though it’s silly. It’s not like the speaker can see me, pressed to the cool brick wall like Sean Connery in a James Bond film. Ha. If only I looked that suave. 

I’m startled from my thoughts at the sound of someone else laughing from just inside the door. I inch closer embarrassingly fast just at the sound of it. 

“I mean it Kirschtein, no fooling around with the guests anymore,” the voice says again and to my delight, the angelic laughter doesn’t stop. _Please don’t stop. Please never stop_ , I think. 

Feeling daring, I shuffle an inch closer to the open door and peek my head around the corner, trying my best to find the source of that wonderful, wonderful voice. 

“Yes, sir,” a man says; I assume it’s the same guy who did all the laughing because the chuckles suddenly cut out. I manage to poke one eye out around the doorway just enough to see the scene in front of me...or at least some of it. Most of the view is blocked by an absolute wall of a man with his hands on his surprisingly slender hips. Just around him, I can make out another man - much smaller and definitely much younger. Dirty blonde hair and a tight black t-shirt are about all I can get a glimpse of before the goliath in my way shifts his weight to his other hip and blocks the younger man entirely. _Damn you. Damn you and your glorious hips_ , I scowl and try to push myself a little farther so I can get a better glimpse of the other person in the room. My shoes slip at the sudden forward momentum and I barely get a hand on one of the door hinges before my face has a very personal confrontation with the sidewalk. 

“What the hell was that?” Another voice chimes in, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. Curse my natural clumsiness, getting in the way of my stalker-ish tendencies… 

“Kirschtein, get the door, would you? Last thing I need is some determined squirrels marching in here and getting into the food,” the larger man says, my heart fluttering at the prospect of getting caught. While I don’t think eavesdropping is a criminal offence, I’m not risking a confrontation with a guy half a head taller than me. I’d like to live to see the end of the summer, thank you. 

With that in mind, I spin on my heel and hightail it away from the long brick building; my loafers kicking up dust and gravel as I sprint for the nearest shelter. My only refuge turns out to be a large juniper shrub, but hey, I’m not picky. I launch myself into its prickly embrace and hunker down, needles and bark scratching at my skin. 

The door to the building shuts somewhere in the distance and I heave a tremendous sigh of relief before rolling around carefully to stand. It takes a good deal of maneuvering on my part, and more huffing and heaving than I’d like to admit, but I manage to pull myself away from the shrub without too much damage. Well, my shirt has definitely seen better days. But I’m just peachy. 

“Phew,” I sigh, standing from my hiding place and stretching out my cramped limbs. My arms raise above my head to relish in the non-thorny space while my legs maneuver their way through a labyrinth of juniper. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” A voice suddenly says and I scream, losing the little balance I had and falling right back into the shrub in a very dramatic stunt that probably would have broken my arm if I didn’t have the good sense to clutch it at my side before falling. 

“Huagh!” I huff once my spine connects with the ground beneath the bush. Above me, the sky seems placid and calm...very different from how I’m personally feeling. I contemplate this for a few moments until a head pokes its way into my line of sight and the pale blue of a June sky is replaced with the burning amber of another man’s irises. 

“Shit, are you okay?” The face mumbles and I briefly acknowledge a hand reaching down and pulling me to my feet, amber eyes coming closer and closer as I’m restored to full height. 

“No, I’m Marco,” I say in response to his question, oblivious to how little sense I’m making until the stranger squints and brings a hand to prod at my forehead. 

“Uh, okay, _Marco_. Are you feelin’ alright?” he says, waving one finger in front of my eyes and scrutinizing the way I fail to keep it in my line of sight. 

“I think I’m concussed,” I state plainly. Or at least, I feel like I do. My words probably slur as they leave my mouth. I don’t know, everything’s kind of fuzzy. 

“Riiight,” the stranger drawls and I find myself hanging onto the way his slight accent draws out the vowels. _Mmm, he sounds nice_ , I think absently while the man grabs one of my arms and flings it across his own shoulder. 

“Where you stayin’, darlin’?” he asks, I wonder if he can hear my heartbeat pick up at the pet name. I hope not. I think I’ve already made a bad enough first impression with the guy...wouldn’t want to somehow make it worse. 

“Garrison,” the man nods and pulls me forward until we’re no longer standing knee-deep in evergreen. He begins heading in the approximate direction of the lodge I mentioned, me stumbling along beside him. 

After a few minutes of trying very, _very_ hard not to let me faceplant and give myself another head injury, the man gives up entirely and leads me over to the nearest ornamental bench for a break. I mumble a thanks as I lean back on the seat, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands and trying to ignore the stranger plopping down next to me. He lets me rub the living daylights out of my eye sockets before making a move to stand or even speak to me, and I find myself extremely grateful for his caution...even if I am a little curious as to how he found me. 

“How’d you find my super secret spy lair?” I say, voice slurred and words jumbled. Amber eyes turns his head to look at me before speaking in that gorgeous accent once again. 

“You’re not as sneaky as you think you are, Mr. Bond,” he smirks. If my head didn’t hurt so damn much, I might smack myself because _of course he heard you sprinting around like a chicken with its head cut off idiot_. “Besides,” he continues, oblivious to my turmoil, “my boss sent me outside to check for rodents. Just my luck I found you instead.” 

I flush red at the man’s words. Or maybe that’s a side effect of the concussion? I don’t know. It’s difficult to figure stuff like this out when everything sounds like a tornado siren and the mid-afternoon sunlight feels like staring straight into one of the rickety old projectors from high school history class. 

“Heh, sorry,” I say bashfully. He shrugs it off like it’s not a big deal. 

“It’s fine. I don’t blame you, Smith is pretty intimidating. I would have run too,” the man says, staring boredly out at the field around us. Eventually his gaze comes to rest on me instead, scanning over my arms and face for any signs of injury. He grins. “Although...I probably wouldn’t have jumped headlong into a bush. I don’t think I’m quite _that_ committed.” 

I chuckle, even though it hurts my head like crazy, and scratch anxiously at the shallow cuts along my cheek. He has an excellent point, as loathe as I am to admit it. Jumping into a bush for cover probably was a bit excessive. 

“So…,” he says after I make no move to respond to his accusation (why should I? He’s right, and he knows it), “Garrison, huh?” 

I scramble for a moment to figure out what he’s referring to. Maybe it’s the looming concussion make it difficult to put a meaning to the word, maybe it’s that I really am an idiot with a penchant for jumping headlong into danger. Maybe I’m just a little preoccupied with the way light reflects off his eyes. I grunt in confusion, the man laughs. 

“You’re staying in Garrison lodge?” He says, pointing to the building across the green from our peaceful little bench. Distantly, I recognize the outline of our Chev amongst the flocks of tourists and similarly run down automobiles. 

_Oh_. “Yeah, my family and I are staying for the summer,” I tell him and he nods, slowly pushing himself to his feet in a way that’s just a little too graceful and a little too dramaticized for the relative normality of the act. 

“Well let’s get you back there then, yeah?” the man extends a hand down to me and I eagerly accept the offered help, unsure if I’ll be able to walk the couple hundred yards back to the lodge by myself. He puts his other arm around my back, allowing me to lean most of my weight on him while we hobble away from the sanctuary of the bench. Moments later, we’re shuffling across the gravel parking lot with the Chevy and up the log steps of the lodge. I’m definitely not coordinated enough to manage it by myself and I think the man realizes it because before I know it, I’m being whisked up bridal style and we’re bounding up the steps two at a time. I yelp once we’re at the top. 

“Oh, sorry. I figured this would be faster?” he says once I’m safely wobbling like a rocking horse on my own two feet. I shoot him a somewhat irritated glare and am about to retort when someone clears their voice. 

“If you’re done playing firefighter, Mom wants your help unpacking the rest of the bags,” Maria says, and I finally spot her sitting cross-armed a few feet away on one of the resort’s antique rocking chairs. She raises a single eyebrow, scrutinizing how I waver on my feet, before turning to glare at the man still holding me around the waist. 

“ _Ahem_ ,” she coughs pointedly; the warmth from the arm around me disappearing suddenly. 

“Right, well. I’ll just...be going then,” the man chokes out before bounding down the steps without another word. Once he’s out of the range of Maria’s death-glare, I realize I never even got his name. Crud. 

I watch longingly at his retreat, completely oblivious of Maria’s anger until one manicured hand is wrapped around my bicep threateningly. 

“You’re in big trouble, mister,” she hisses. My arm is suddenly being yanked nearly out of its socket in Maria’s haste to lead me inside the lodge. Once we’re through the massive wooden doors, she pushes me into a side room clearly meant for tea parties and elderly men smoking cigars. 

“What’s your problem,” I snap back even as I’m pushed sideways into a stuffy armchair. Maria keeps glaring, so I throw my arms above my head in exasperation, “what?!” 

“Have you forgotten about your _little secret?_ ” She replies, crossing her arms across her chest and squinting at me. I freeze, holding my breath and stifling the awkward shifting I was doing to get comfortable in the armchair. 

“Was it that obvious?” I whisper, even though we’re alone in the room. At least, as far as I’m aware we are. I guess there’s enough hiding places in here for someone to come sneaking out of. Oh God, what if my parents are hiding behind that curtain? What is Mom’s about to jump out from under that coffee table? 

“Stop panicking,” Maria’s flat tone cuts through my inner monologue and I stop my frantic search to catch her eye. “You’re obvious, but it’s fine. Mom and Dad are at the golf course.” 

I sigh in relief; God knows what would’ve happened if our parents found me swooning over another man. 

“ _But_ ,” she continues, “you better keep it in your pants next time.” 

“I-it wasn’t like that!” I yelp, partially because I’m perfectly capable of keeping it in my pants, thank you, and partially because I’m scandalized my little sister would even suggest it. I stand from the armchair and try to push Maria - the damn bane of my existence - out of the way, but her hand on my chest stops me. 

“I know. And you know I wouldn’t care if it was. Mom and Dad on the other hand…” she trails off just as she removes her hand and lets me pass her by. I give her a parting glare before sulking off to think about it. 

“Pffft, can’t keep it my pants,” I mumble, trailing one hand along the glossy wooden banister as I scale the stairs to our rooms, “I can so. Just you wait.” 

. 

.. 

… 

Keeping it in my pants turns out to be a lot harder than I thought it would be. The following morning, after a rude awakening courtesy of one Maria Bodt, I decide to go exploring again. Of course we’ve been to the resort before, but the activities and facilities are constantly changing. As is the staff. The only people who stay constant are the owner and his son and apparently Dad and the resort owner are friends, hence why we keep coming back. 

And apparently I’m supposed to consider the resort owner’s son a friend, hence why I go looking for his bulking frame almost immediately after being woken up by my dissolute sister. 

“Reiner!” I call once I spot him struggling with an armful of suitcases a few yards from the front porch of the lodge. His blue eyes turn back to me, and even from this distance I can feel his relief at the sight of me. 

“Marco, hey! Help me out?” He shouts back and I snicker at the way his voice echoes in the quiet morning air. I jog up beside him nonetheless, taking a few of the suitcases from his meaty arms and flinging a backpack over my shoulder. Reiner slaps me on the arm in greeting, bright smile coming close to splitting his face in half. 

“Good to see you, too,” I grunt. He’s maybe just a little too strong to be punching me on the shoulder without leaving a bruise, but I digress. “Where are we taking these?” 

“Staff headquarters,” Reiner replies before shouldering a ridiculous amount of baggage and heading in the direction of an uncomfortably familiar sight. My feet decide on shuffling frantically at the sight of the long brick building, and decide to stop moving altogether once I spot the the uncomfortably familiar shrub just off the main sidewalk. Reiner doesn’t seem to notice my hesitation and keeps on walking, leaving me no choice but to follow him through the doorway I was camping out in front of yesterday. 

“You can just throw them over here,” he says once we’re safely through the door, gesturing towards an impressive pile of duffle bags and suitcases. I follow his order easily; I’m eager to get this stuff off my hands just as much as he is. 

Just as I toss the last of my load - a lightweight rucksack - onto the pile, I notice the sound of laughter. And music. I glance sideways at my supposed friend who only smiles and gestures me towards a dimly lit hallway. Distantly, I register how sketchy this is...walking down a poorly illuminated hall with someone I hardly know towards who-know-what, but curiosity wins out in the end and I find myself pacing behind Reiner anyway. 

Reiner approaches a slightly eskew door at the very end of the hallway, pushing it open without knocking or even announcing his presence, and pulls me inside. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the bright light inside the room, but I go hilariously bug-eyed once I do. 

“Wha…?” I start before I realize Reiner is no longer standing near me and has instead moved to the center of the room to chat with a handful of dancing strangers. To my surprise, one of the strangers moves behind Reiner and places his hands seductively on his hips, leaning down to whisper something into my friend’s ear. I blush at the public display of intimacy, but Reiner doesn’t seem to mind, and most likely enjoys the treatment if the way he knots a hand in the man’s shaggy brown hair is anything to go by. I flush a darker shade of red as they exchange an affectionate kiss. 

“Don’t tell me you’re one of them bigots,” a familiar voice purrs dangerously close to my ear, the hair at the back of my neck sticking up in surprise. I turn to confront the speaker, only to be met with a pair of amber eyes staring right back into mine. 

“N-no! No, of course not! It’s just…,” I struggle to think of the right phrasing. It’s scandalous? It’s obscene? Dearest Mother and Father would have twin aneurysms if they knew I was hanging out with such a promiscuous crowd? I gulp. 

“It’s just what?” the man says, moving in front of me so I’m not craning my neck to speak with him. I sigh a little when I realise I’ve got at least inch or two of height on him. “Disgusting?” he asks. 

“What? No!” I yelp, his eyes never leaving me. I absentmindedly wonder if he ever even blinks. 

“Then what? It’s just… _dirty?_ ” 

“Yes!” I squeak, the shame immediately filling my gut with a cold, sinking feeling. “I-I mean no! It’s just...not what I’m used to, is all.” God, I hope he believes me. I hope he realizes I’m not a bigot, just an awkward, virginal idiot who didn’t realize what kind of activities his friend got up to behind closed doors. 

The man cocks his head to the side, eyes still scrutinizing and unblinking. I duck my head to avoid their burning gaze. That is, until I hear him laughing. 

I’ve always liked people’s laughs. They’re the realest expression of a person’s voice you can really get, and it’s always nice to hear what someone sounds like when they’re happy. But God, _this_ laugh is my favorite. It’s bright, and cheerful, and non-judgemental in spite of recent circumstances. 

“God, you’re too innocent,” the man says once his enticing laughter stops shaking his entire body. He holds out a hand to me, which I take hesitantly. “I’m Jean. I believe we met the other day...Marco, right?” 

“That’s me,” I shrug and the man - Jean - hums. Without releasing my hand from his grip, he tugs me towards the center of the room with another wonderful laugh. I don’t think I could stop him from pulling me along if I tried. 

“Well, _Marco_ , how ‘bout a little impromptu dance lesson?” Jean purrs and I’m suddenly yanked forward until we’re standing chest to chest in the center of the room. I mentally scream, reminding myself over and over that I promised Maria I’d keep it in my pants for the rest of the summer; but it’s getting kind of hard with the way Jean keeps looking at me. 

“I don’t really dance,” I bite my lip. Maybe if I act really nervous, he’ll let me go and I can cool off by jumping dick-first into the resort lake. 

“I’ll show you,” he says, moving one of my hands to his shoulder while he places his free hand on my hip and tugs us even closer. “Besides, what’s a little… _dirty dancing_ between friends?” 

It feels like an elephant just stepped on my chest, that’s how breathless his confidence makes me. Which is, for a number of reasons, extremely pathetic. The most obvious of which being that his words have an unhealthy amount of control over me, even though I just learned his first name and we’ve talked maybe ten times since he met me hiding from his boss in a bush. 

I find myself nodding anyway, and Jean leads me in a casual waltz around our corner of the room. None of the staffers spare a second glance at us as we sweep past, no one even laughs when I trip gracelessly over my own feet despite Jean’s careful leading. 

“This isn’t so bad,” I murmur once I start feeling confident about the step sequence. _Side, back, forward, side, back, forward, side…_

“Told you it wasn’t such a big deal, darlin’,” Jean hums back and we turn our heads to look each other in the eye as we continue with our little dance. Only once Reiner calls me over to help him out with some more chores do we look away. 

“I should get going,” I laugh, because maybe if I laugh, I can pass off the feeling in my chest as awkward nerves instead of affection for the man I hardly know. “Thanks for the lesson, it was fun.” 

“Anytime,” Jean says back, flashing me one last crooked grin before we head our separate ways; me towards the open door, and Jean towards the dancefloor. 

Hours later, when I’m lying on my back in the center of my bed, I realise how fucked I truly am. The feeling of Jean’s hands on my hips won’t leave, and his cocky smirk is painted behind my eyelids. I roll over to try and quiet the erratic beating of my heart, but it doesn’t help. I take a cold shower, and that doesn’t help either. I belly flop onto the scratchy floral comforter and utter my last curse of the evening. 

“Fuck.” 

And that helps a little bit. 

. 

.. 

… 

I didn’t see Jean for an entire week after our encounter at the staff headquarters, and a lot of that time was spent convincing myself it was for the best. Maybe, I thought, if I didn’t see him, I wouldn’t do anything stupid and compromise my hidden sexuality. 

But fate obviously had it out for me because who should I see while enjoying a walk around the grounds but none other than source of my distress himself. 

“Marco,” he drawls in greeting as I approach him. He stands not too far from the auditorium, one arm crossed in front of his chest in a tricep stretch that looks surprisingly comfortable on him. Jean moves to stretch his other arm in the same manner and doesn’t stop until I’m standing square in front of him. 

“Jean,” I reply. He gracefully reaches both arms above his head, standing on his toes and exposing the slightest sliver of stomach underneath his shirt. 

“Long time no see. How’ve you been?” Jean asks and lowers his arms; I try not to pout in disappointment when my view of his skin is blocked by the shirt returning to settle on his hips. 

“Just fine, I suppose,” I lie. I hope he doesn’t notice how bad I am at keeping secrets. 

“Mmm,” Jean hums, fixing me with a glare that clearly suggests he knows I’m not telling the truth, “you been practicing?” 

“Practicing?” 

“Your dancing,” he replies, suddenly circling around to stand behind me and place both hands on my hips. Of course I jump embarrassingly at the contact, which makes Jean laugh, but I also find myself leaning into it once the initial shock has ebbed. 

“Uh...not exactly,” Jean hums in my ear, squeezing my waist until he gets me to rock side to side in a poor, backwards imitation of the dance he tried to teach me a week ago. I let him. Partly because I’m morbidly curious, partly because my judgement is severely clouded by the warmth seeping through my t-shirt. 

“Shame,” Jean says, pulling away and spinning me around with a practiced flick of his wrists so I’m facing him, “you had potential.” 

“Had?” I scoff, Jean gives me another sideways smirk. 

“Haven’t seen anything today to suggest you still got the moves, kid,” he replies and I pretend he’s just presented me with the most grievous of insults, clutching fake pearls to my chest and gasping like my mother does when she sees something scandalous on the television. 

“Are you insulting my honor?” I ask, Jean chuckles and nods. “Well stand back and watch the sparks fly, _nonbeliever_ ,” I shoo him back a few feet so I can put on a show for his mocking eyes. 

Once he’s backed up, I remember I have no idea how to dance whatsoever and begin to panic. Clearly I didn’t think this through. But...I vaguely remember watching Bojangles dancing on the television when I was a kid...maybe if I just channel some of his toe tapping, I can pretend like I never even suggested this impromptu performance. 

“I’m waiting,” Jean snarks and I begrudgingly begin to dance. It’s an awful imitation; I know it. My moves aren’t anywhere as mesmerizing as Bojangles’ and I might as well just be waddling like a penguin with how dumb I must look, but I refuse to give up until Jean tells me I’m a good dancer or tells me to stop. Whichever comes first. 

Jean tells me to stop first. He lifts a slender finger to his mouth and bites down on the knuckle, trying desperately to conceal the laughter he can’t fight back. Then he shakes his head back and forth until I’ve stopped my offensive dancing. 

“That bad, huh?” I ask and he nods instead of responding because he’s too preoccupied choking on his own glorious laughter. 

“Pretty bad,” he says once the laughter has been replaced with heavy breathing and wheezing. 

“Maybe you should teach me, then,” I suggest. 

Wait. What? 

_This is ground control to Marco, ground control to Marco! Please keep it in your pants for the remainder of the summer! We repeat, please keep your hands and legs inside the vehicle while the cart is in motion! Mayday, mayday, mayday!_

I suck in a massive breath once the words leave my mouth, the voices in my head screaming to run or take it back or do _something less gay_ before I make it exponentially worse for myself. 

But luckily for Jean, he doesn’t have the displeasure of hearing the voices in my head, and he smiles. Big, and wide, and kind of goofy. He reaches one hand out to squeeze my shoulder in a gesture my overactive brain has trouble interpreting as anything other than overly affectionate. 

“Well...I _did_ just lose my dance partner…” Jean sighs, his over-eager grin turning into a smirk. 

“Bull,” I scoff and Jean shakes his head rapidly at my disbelief. 

“No! It’s true! She got knocked up by my bud Connie, can’t dance for the rest of the season,” he explains and I contemplate the validity of the excuse. It seems pretty legitimate for something he might’ve made up on the fly, so I elect to believe him. For now, at least. 

“Hmm,” I scratch my chin as if I’m really mulling this over, even though I already know I’ll do anything just to feel Jean’s hands on my hips and hear him laugh again, “where exactly will we be dancing?” 

“Just a few showcases around the resort; maybe the local bar, if you’re up for it.” 

“And when did you say we start?” 

“Right fucking now.” 

. 

.. 

… 

When Jean says ‘right fucking now’, he means _right fucking now_. As in the second the words left his lips, he grabbed me around the waist and began teaching me the mambo. It’s easier than I expected it to be, and Jean’s a great teacher, but I still struggle with the timing. Even now, and it’s been two weeks since Jean started teaching me the ridiculously fast steps. 

The worst for me is the turns; Jean tries to patient with me, but it’s obvious he’s getting frustrated at my inability to maintain upright after a spin. He keeps pursing his lips at my lack of balance and suggesting we try it from the top _one more time_ , even though we both know I’m not getting the turn sequence right any time soon. 

So here I am now, alone in my room at the lodge, spinning around in my tube socks, trying to perfect the god-awful spin I’ve never gotten quite right. My head hurts from the constant turning, my feet burn from the friction, and I’m sweating more than I’d care to admit. _It’ll be worth it when Jean sees how much I’ve improved_ , I tell myself, smiling at the thought. 

Jean always rewards me for mastering a new move. Like when I got the opening step-sequence down and he snuck me a cherry popsicle from the kitchen as a treat. Or when we finished learning all the choreography and he suggested we take the day off, opting to walk around the green and talk instead of burning up in the humid air of the resort dance studio. I smile even wider when I recall how much I learned about him just from that one adventure. How he likes his coffee, his favorite time of year, where he grew up, how he loves dancing more than just about anything… 

“Wow,” a voice suddenly startles me from my thoughts, wiping the smile off my face and knocking me completely off balance until I’m sprawled on the floor like a bug on a windshield. 

“Wha - Maria!” I groan once I spot her hovering at the door connecting my temporary bedroom to hers. She does not look happy; that’s fine. I’m not either, now that I’ve had the wind knocked out of me and my concentration interrupted. 

“Could you be any more obvious?” she sighs like I didn’t just fall dramatically right in front of her. 

“I’m not! I’m just...dancing…” 

“Right. And not thinking about your friend’s hot body _at all_ ,” Maria responds before ducking out of the room and leaving me to my thoughts. _I don't care if I'm obvious_ , I think, a smile creeping back over my face, _Jean’s worth it_. 

. 

.. 

… 

“So there’s a showcase about a week from now. Think you’re up for it?” Jean asks me mid-practice one day. I stop my stretching to stare at him questioningly. 

“Here?” I ask absently. At this point, I don’t much care where it is. Could be on the moon for all I shits I give. 

“Yeah, wanna dance?” he smirks, grabbing my hand and drawing me to him until we’re in the starting position for the dance he’s been teaching me: chest to chest, nose to nose, eye to eye. “With you?” I chuckle then squeeze his shoulder and bring him as close as I possibly can, “ _always_.” 

. 

.. 

… 

Three days later, I find myself pressed up against Jean in a completely different way. It started fairly innocently, just our routine dance practice, but a few too many flirtatious remarks and a stumble into open arms led us somewhere completely different. Not that I’m complaining; Jean’s lips pressing insistently to mine are more than a welcome addition to our dance. 

“A-ah, God,” I mumble against his mouth, humming with contentment when he only surges forward more to take my bottom lip between his teeth, a low groan rumbling in his chest. 

“Still wanna dance with me, Freckles?” Jean asks between frantic kisses and slides of his tongue, pushing me further and further into the wall he backed me into a few minutes ago. 

“God, yes,” I get out, rolling my head back to expose my neck to Jean’s insistent kissing and biting. I hum when he nips playfully at my collarbone. 

“Good, because I wanna dance with you too,” he says, pulling back to look me in the eye. It’s an appreciated gesture. I think we’ve both been physically attracted to the other since day one...since Jean found me sprawled on my back in the middle of a bush. But just looking at the way he smiles at me fondly and takes a step back so we each have our own space, I sense it’s more than that. 

Jean and I could easily turn our friendship around until we’re nothing but a summer fling and a distant memory to each other. We could kiss, sleep together, even confess our undying love to each other under the stars, and go back to our lives come August. I don’t want that. And judging from the space he gives me and the soft peck he gives to my sweaty temple, Jean doesn’t want that either. 

“Sap. Just don’t tell my dad,” I say once he’s pulled away completely. Feeling oddly confident, I surge forward and press my lips against his before adding, “or my mom.” 

Jean laughs and holds my hand - an act which makes my face burst into flames just from the blatant sentimentality. 

“I won’t,” he chuckles, squeezing my hand, “if you promise not to tell my boss.” 

“Scout’s honor,” I tell him, holding my free hand out in mock salute. 

“Good. Now let’s work on that lift again, I have a feeling it’s gonna be a problem later on…” 

. 

.. 

… 

The day before the big showcase, we find ourselves sprawled out on the green in front of the dance studio. Our hands are intertwined, though it’s almost impossible to tell from a distance. Still, the open affection terrifies me a little, and I end up squeezing Jean’s hand hard enough I’m amazed he still has circulation in his fingers. 

“Nervous?” he chuckles. I’d envy his level headedness if I didn’t know it to be fake. I’ve seen the way he acts around the other staffers and even some of the resort guests; it’s pretty obvious I’m the calm one in this relationship. 

“A little,” I respond honestly. We decided to cancel practice today because, according to Jean, you’re never supposed to rehearse the day before your performance. His wonky rule doesn’t say anything about cloud watching though. 

“Don’t be, the performance will be fine,” he squeezes my hand and I squeeze back. 

“It’s not exactly the dancing I’m worried about,” I sigh and shift my eyes to the side to catch Jean’s response. I see him arch his brow in question before he rolls onto his side, propping himself up by the elbow, and stares into my uncertain eyes. 

“What is?” he asks, and how could I lie to this guy? He’d see through it in a heartbeat. 

I sigh. “My parents?” I roll myself over so we’re face to face now; if we weren’t in the middle of a public resort, I’d probably kiss him right now. Or maybe I’d do something a little less socially acceptable. Ha. If only I had the guts. 

“Yeah?” Jean hums. If I didn’t know him well enough, I’d think he was trying to avoid the conversation with his short responses, but that’s just how he is. And I love him for it. 

“I think...I think they’d go nuclear if they found out…,” I trail off and flop onto my back to trace the outlines of clouds with my eyes. 

“Found out...about us?” he fills in, leaning over until I can’t see the sky behind his head. I smile softly at the concerned furrow to his brow, one freckled hand coming up to brush the creases away. I nod. 

Jean seems to contemplate this for a minute before asking, “what about us?” 

I sigh again and allow my hand to drop from Jean’s face to my chest. He keeps staring at me with those gorgeous amber eyes I’ve admired since day one, so I answer him. 

“Well...they’re not bad people or anything, they’re just very religious. And sometimes I hear them talking about striking down the sodomites when they think Maria and I are asleep. And I’m pretty sure they’d kick me out if they knew…” 

“...you were dancing with a man?” 

“Yeah,” I whisper back, Jean nods in understanding before pressing a feather light kiss against my forehead and leaning away. 

“Well screw them,” he says suddenly and I turn to stare, slack jawed. Jean continues before I can protest. “Parent’s are supposed to support you. And if they don’t, then they’re not good parents. End of story.” 

I stare at Jean’s face searchingly, trying to pick out the emotions he usually wears like a mask. All I can make out is his anger, and perhaps the slightest bit of sadness. 

“Is that what happened to your parents?” I ask quietly, hoping he’ll actually answer instead of brushing me off like he sometimes does when something upsets him. 

“Kind of,” he mumbles, “they found me kissing a guy I was on the football team with in high school. Didn’t take to kindly to it, o’course. Kentucky baptists, y’know? So they told me not to come back until I straightened myself out. Except I couldn’t, and I didn’t want to. Figured if I went back, they’d just pretend nothing happened and ignore this...this _part of me_ and I couldn’t stand that. Either they accepted the whole me, or none of me.” 

Jean looks over to me then, our eyes meeting briefly before his face lights up with a fond smile I’m beginning to associate with warmth and happiness and all that is good. 

“That’s how I ended up here, kinda,” he smiles a little wider, “Erwin, the owner? His son’s gay. Has been since he was five, and doesn’t care who knows it either. Not that I knew when I applied to work here, but it certainly helped. Made me feel a little safer.” 

I hum at his explanation and think back to the day in the staff headquarters when Reiner had kissed another man as if it was the most natural thing in the world. 

“That...actually helps a little,” I tell him, not a single lie leaving my lips. It _is_ a bit of a relief, and Jean _does_ make sense; even if my parents hate me for it, at least I’ll have a handful of people to fall back on. 

“Good,” Jean sighs, rolling on his side again and grabbing my hip until I’m doing the same. We smile at each other, Jean squeezing my hip, me squeezing Jean’s hand. “Are you ready for tomorrow?” 

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, leaning in one last time to brush our lips together before parting for the day. Can’t stay out here forever, after all. 

“You’ll be great,” he says, pulling me up to stand and wrapping his arms around me in a quick hug. 

I believe him. 

. 

.. 

… 

The day of the performance dawns bright and clear and even though we’re not dancing until dinner time, I find myself rising early from nerves. Jean has this crazy notion we shouldn’t see each other until the dance, so I pace around my room for hours until my need for food forces me to scavenge the dining hall for anything edible. I acquire a muffin for my troubles. 

By five-thirty, I’m amazed to find myself alive and in one piece with all the worrying I’ve been doing. It’s only once Jean comes to hunt me down backstage that I feel truly at peace with the situation. 

“You look amazing,” he smiles upon seeing me and I glance down at the costume Jean managed to finagle me into. Tight black pants, ruffled red shirt, same loafers as always. I try to believe him. 

“So do you,” I say, gesturing to his similar getup. Well, the pants are the same. He wears a plain black t-shirt instead of a ruffled one. Jean smirks and grabs my hand to hold up between our chests. 

“You’re gonna be great, darlin’,” he whispers, pressing a quick peck to my cheek once he’s sure no one backstage is looking, and darts off to his corner of the stage. My heart beats wildly from the brief encounter, and I swear I almost miss Reiner’s peppy voice announcing our performance to the crowd. Regardless, I end up walking onto the stage and meeting up with Jean in the middle. 

He smiles at me as we take our positions and I let out a final breath before someone queues up the music and we start to move. 

At this point, I think I could do the damn mambo in my sleep. I probably have. So the starting step sequence comes to me almost instinctually, and I never take my eyes off Jean as we move; he’s far more interesting than the frantic motions of my feet anyway. His eyes sparkle with joy as we make our way across the stage and he bites his lip when he has to concentrate on holding me up during an elaborate dip. He goes back to smiling the second I’m back in his arms, and I can’t help but smile back - even if a turn is coming up and I’m probably about to fall on my face. 

I never perfected this damned turning thing, even after all the practice in my bedroom. _I’m slightly better_ , I lie to myself even as Jean grabs my hand and begins leading me backwards across the stage to prepare for the move, _just not perfect_. 

Jean grabs my hip and pushes, spinning me round and round underneath his arm. Unsurprisingly, I fall out of it. And unsurprisingly, Jean catches me when I do. I flash him a grateful smile for his efforts and he returns it quickly before focusing on the last few steps of the dance. _Back, forward, left, back, forward, right…_

The music comes to a soaring crescendo and I lean into Jean’s embrace as the guitars and violins get louder and louder. He dips me back until it feels like I might be mopping the floor with my hair, but I can’t exactly complain with how out of breath I am and with how quiet the room has become with the song ending. I wonder if no one’s applauding because I was that awful...or maybe they’re scandalized to see Jean holding _me_ around the waist instead of some beautiful woman. 

Jean and I scramble for air, our exhales mixing between us as we stare each other down. Our huffing and puffing is the only sound in the large room and for a split second, I’m convinced we’re about to be booed off the stage or arrested or something so I straighten up to flee the crowd before they bring out the torches and pitchforks. But once I’m straightened up and no longer standing in Jean’s arms, everything changes; the crowd jumps to their feet, tapping their forks on crystal wine glasses and whistling while I stare dumbly at their enthusiasm. 

A hand lands on my shoulder and I turn to find Jean smiling broadly and jumping up and down on the balls of his feet. He squeezes, just once, and I take that as my cue to follow him off stage. Once the curtain covers us, Jean pulls me into a passionate kiss, yanking me in by the lapels of my shirt and clinging to me with one hand fisted in my hair. I try not to moan too loudly when he swipes his tongue across my bottom lip because as nice as it feels, the crowd is starting to settle down and I don’t think I could handle the entire resort hearing my desperation. 

“You did great,” Jean whispers in awe once he’s pulled away enough for me to admire the redness of his lips and the excitement in his eyes. I smile and pull him in for a hug. 

“All thanks to you,” I mumble into his ear, sighing when Jean squeezes me back. 

“Let’s go, yeah?” he says after releasing me and I agree. There are a few other acts in the showcase, but I don’t feel like watching them, I’d much rather watch Jean. 

“Yeah, I could use a shower,” I sniff my shirt and wince at the sweat clinging to it. Jean nods and I follow him down the stairs and through the backstage door, fully intent on heading off to the lodge for a bath. To my surprise, Jean stops me before I can take another step in that direction, pulling me instead towards staff headquarters. 

“Where…?” I try asking, but Jean just throws a knowing smirk over his shoulder. 

“My place,” he purrs. I suck in a massive breath at the implications of such a simple statement, my heart beats frantically against my ribs. Shit, how many weeks have I wanted this? And now it’s finally within my reach...God, I want it. But if Mom or Dad finds out, I’m done for. I mull this over in my head for a few minutes, my brain casually suggesting a few likely scenarios ranging from being boiled alive by Mom’s weirdly religious family to being disowned completely by the two of them. 

“Marco!” a new voice suddenly interrupts my morbid fantasies, though I do a double take when it sounds just like the voices disowning me in my imagination. I turn around to locate the speaker. 

“Marco, get over here!” Speak of the devil. 

My father stands a few yards away, hair ruffled, shirt stained with sweat, chest heaving slightly. Clearly, he’d been running after me. 

“Dad?” I say, pulling my hand from Jean’s and praying to every deity I can possibly think of that my father didn’t just see our affectionate display. 

“Here. Now,” he continues and I walk towards him with my head bowed. I don’t look back at Jean when he quietly calls after me. I don’t look back at Jean when I’m standing squarely in front of my father, either. 

“What was that,” he says slowly, calmly, with all the practiced patience of a parent of two rowdy children. 

“Dancing,” I murmur. 

“Is this what you’ve been doing with your time?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did that degenerate teach you?” I don’t respond. He knows the answer already, and I refuse to let Jean’s name slip. 

“Marco.” My father crosses his arms over his broad chest and glares pointedly over my head, presumably at Jean. 

“Yes?” 

“Did he teach you?” he asks again and for the first time I turn to look at Jean. He hasn’t moved a single inch, still rooted to the spot where I left him, feet planted firmly and amber eyes glittering with some wild emotion I can’t place. It seems like anger - like the seething, boiling anger I sometimes see him drowning in when another staffer pisses him off or he thinks too hard about his parents. But it looks so much more aggressive, more direct and closer to the point of explosion than I’ve ever seen it. I turn back to my father even though it kills me to see him so angry and hurt. 

“Yes, _Jean_ taught me,” I tell him proudly before taking a few steps back from his looming form, “we’ve been practicing nearly every day.” 

Dad inhales sharply through his nose and I almost, _almost_ , laugh at the way his nostrils flare. 

“This is how you spend your time? I thought you knew better than that. We raised you better than that,” he says in the same, practiced tone. 

“It’s just dancing, Dad. I’m not hurting anyone,” I respond. I take another two steps back. 

“With degenerates,” my father corrects, taking two long strides so we’re chest to chest again, “I don’t want you anywhere near _him_ , Marco.” 

“And what do you know about him?” I yell and I’m suddenly grateful he chose to approach me because it makes it so much easier to get in his face when we’re so close. “You’ve never even met Jean!” 

“No,” he agrees, “but I asked about him. Once I saw that little… _show_ you two put on. I grabbed Erwin and made him tell me about the bastard.” 

“He’s not-,” 

“Did you know he was disowned for being a homosexual? Do you know the kind of trouble he’s gotten into? Do you even know why he works here?” he raves; I flinch at the aggression first, the blatant attacks on my sexuality next. 

“I-I…,” how do I answer this? Yes, Dad. I knew he was gay. But guess what, I’m gay too! Happy birthday, please don’t disown me. 

“You stay away from him in the future,” Dad hisses, jerking a thumb over his shoulder and gesturing towards the lodge. I decide to spare one last glance at Jean before I leave, immediately regretting the decision. 

His eyes are filled with tears and I want so badly to wipe them away with soothing words and feather light kisses. But I can’t. Not here, at least. Not with my father hovering over the both of us like a skyscraper. 

I blink back tears of my own as I turn away, brushing past my dad and stomping in the direction of the lodge. Heavy footsteps follow me the whole way and I assume Dad has joined me in the dreary trek across the green. He even follows me up the stairs to my room, stopping only once I’ve slammed the door in his face. 

I walk over to the bed and lie on my back so I can distract myself by counting the cracks in the ceiling. It doesn’t help. All I can think of are the tears forming in Jean’s beautiful eyes as I leave him to live out a lie. Even as I drift off for the night, his eyes are all I can think of. 

I wonder if I’ll ever get to see them again. 

. 

.. 

… 

Come two o’clock in the morning, I decide that yes, I _will_ see those eyes again. In fact, I’ll see them _right fucking now_ , as Jean would put it. 

The decision is most definitely a bad one, but I don’t care. I’ve been up since I got back to the lodge and most of that time was spent crying. It’s clear I won’t be sleeping anytime soon, so I might as well make the most of my night. The guilt gnawing at my bones tells me I have to. It whispers words of encouragement as I pull on a pair of faded jeans and tattered shoes. It chants like my own personal cheerleader as I tiptoe past my parent’s room and into the hallway. It goes absolutely ballistic when I start sprinting across the green towards the staff headquarters, heart pounding and feet racing weightlessly across freshly manicured grass. 

I pull up to the front door of the building in record time and I jokingly imagine trails of dust billowing up in my wake as I screech to a cartoonish stop. Before I’ve stopped moving completely, I’m grappling with the door handle and throwing my weight against the hinges, begging for the damn thing to open. It doesn’t, much to my chagrin, but I won’t let it stop me. I refuse to just give up here. 

There are windows all around the HQ and I tentatively approach one resting slightly ajar. It’s too dark for me too see inside, but I can sort of make out the shape of a bed...must be a staffer’s room. I push up on the window, wincing when it squeaks in protest but not allowing myself to stop. It takes a few minutes of bargaining with the window gods and a couple dozen curse to get it open but once it is, everything’s a piece of cake. 

I haul myself through the tiny opening and wiggle around until I’m mostly inside. Then I’m rolling forward and onto the floor of whoever’s bedroom this is with a quiet thud and a whispered “ _shit!_ ”. 

“Wha…?” A voice lousy with sleep says and I curse again, turning to the bed where I assume the voice is coming from. “Who’re you?” 

The man in the bed is tall. Like, crazy tall. And though he looks like a gentle giant, I’m not about to risk a confrontation. 

“Sorry! I-I’m trying to find someone and your window was open so I snuck in I’m not a robber, I swear!” I wave my hands in front of me and pull myself to my feet, tripping over discarded clothing along the way. Huh, that’s weird. This guy has two pairs of underwear lying on his floor. 

“Mmm...babe?” Another voice chimes in, equally as tired but definitely more familiar. My eyes widen when the speaker reveals himself by lifting up on one elbow behind the taller man and begins rubbing his eyes. “Wa’s goin’ on?” 

“Reiner?” I practically gasp, brain finally putting all the pieces together and recognizing exactly _why_ there are two pairs of underwear lying on the ground. _Oh my God, ew_. 

“Marco?” Reiner says, clearly still out of it. He reaches one arm around the other man’s waist and gives it a firm squeeze - the taller man squeaks, but doesn’t complain. 

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…” 

“Nah it’s fine. This is far from the worst position Bertl and I have been caught in,” he says and nuzzles into the nape of his lover’s neck. The man - Bertl, I guess - hums in delight, delivering an irritated slap to the arm around his waist for disclosing such blatantly intimate secrets nonetheless. “God, don’t tell him that,” Bertl reprimands and Reiner quickly utters a half-assed apology into the other man’s ear. Shit. This is too much. I can’t watch this, I’m not supposed to see this. Oh my God, can they see how red my face is getting? Shit this is awkward, _abort abort abort_. 

“W-well I’m just gonna go now…,” I say, and start sneaking towards the door I assume will lead me into the hall. A quiet call of my name from Reiner stops me with my hand on the door knob. 

“Where’re ya goin’?” he slurs. I consider not answering him, odds are he won’t even remember this in the morning anyway, but I’m too bad at keeping the truth from people to just flee the room without giving him at least a few answers. 

“I have to find a friend,” I tell him, though the word feels wrong on my tongue. He’s so much more than a friend. 

“Jean?” the other man asks and I spin around in wide-eyed surprise. 

“How?” I try asking, but Reiner holding up his hand shuts me up. 

“He’s crazy about you, won’t shut up about yer ass,” he says, dead serious and without the slightest glimmer of humor in his eyes. I squeak in surprise. 

“O-oh.” I wish I was more articulate. I wish I knew how to respond to this kind of stuff. I wish I wasn’t discussing my own assets with my friend and his boyfriend at two in the morning. 

“Yeah. Likes your personality, too. Thinks you’re the greatest thing since sliced bread,” Reiner continues, “he’s down the hall on the left.” 

Reiner yawns and flops back into bed, tugging Bertl down with him and cuddling the other man like there’s no tomorrow. I whisper a thank you in their direction before turning back to the door, twisting the knob and pushing it open as quietly as I can. 

“Oh, and Marco?” Reiner calls out again; I have to fight the urge not to shush him, but let him continue anyway because I’m a curious fucker and I can’t resist knowing what he has to say. 

“Yeah?” 

“Use protection.” My face feels like hellfire and I sprint out of the room faster and louder than I probably should since I’m, you know, trying to be sneaky and all. I’m sure James bond would be hilariously disappointed in me, but 007 can kiss my ass. I’m too damn innocent and too damn awkward to tolerate suggestive comments without booking it in the opposite direction. 

_At least luck is sort of on my side_ , I tell myself when it turns out each door is decorated with a plaque reading off the staffer’s name and position. I follow the hallway like Reiner suggested and there! A door on the left proudly displays a dorky handmade sign with ‘Jean Kirschtein, Dance Instructor Extraordinaire’ sprawled across it in Jean’s sloppy handwriting. 

I take a deep breath once I’ve pulled up to the door, focusing on the name printed in front of me just to ground myself. This seemed like such a great idea when I left, but now I’m not so sure...what if he hates me? What if he yells at me to leave and I get arrested for trespassing? What if he never wants to see me again? 

_Stop it, he’ll understand. He still likes you_ , I reprimand myself, taking one final breath before I grab the doorknob and gently push on the door separating me from Jean. 

Once it’s open, I take tentative step forward. And another. And then another. And one more for good measure before I shut the door behind me as quietly as humanly possible and take in the room around me. 

It’s pretty much exactly the same as Reiner’s, only there aren’t any hastily discarded articles of clothing littering the floor. I try to think of that as a good sign. There’s also only one person in this bed, another good sign, and I begin approaching them cautiously. 

The closer I get the more obvious it becomes that it’s Jean. I can’t see much in the dim light, but who else has such gorgeous two-toned hair and sleeps sprawled out like a starfish in nothing but his boxers? 

“Jean,” I whisper and nudge the man below me gently on the shoulder; he doesn’t stir. I lean down so my face is close to his and try whispering his name again. “ _Jean_. Please wake up, it’s me.” He still doesn’t budge. “ _Jean!_ ” I practically yell. 

“Mmmm,” he groans, one hand blindly reaching out to me and running through my hair. I bite my lip and call his name again, and again, and again, until he finally blinks open his beautiful eyes and sets them on me. 

“Freckles?” I try not to let the way his eyes reflect the dim moonlight streaming through the window distract me. I try really, _really_ hard. 

For about two seconds. 

“I’m so, so sorry, Jean,” I whimper, toeing off my shoes before crawling across his limbs until I’m straddling his slender hips and pressing my mouth against his, “I’m,” kiss, “so,” another kiss, “sorry.” 

“Mmph!” Jean grunts at my sudden weight against him, but he doesn’t try to push me off or pull away from the needy whines against his lips. Instead, he sits up on his elbows and places one hand on my hip, grounding me, while the other rubs soothingly up and down my thigh. 

“I’m sorry,” I tell him again and again and again because he deserves to hear it a hundred thousand times to make up for all the awful things my father said to him. I mutter it against his lips, his ear, in his hair, against the pale skin of his neck, again and again and again. 

“Shh, Marco, shh. You don’t need to apologize,” Jean says, pushing me off him ever so slightly so he can look into my eyes, “never apologize for another person.” 

My lip quivers and I can’t believe I’m gonna start crying now after the night I’ve had. Shouldn’t the water works have come sooner than this? 

“Okay,” my voice wavers; Jean leans up to press a soft kiss to my cheek. 

“Don’t cry, please?” he says, rubbing his thumbs in calming circles on my hip and thigh. I practically start purring at the attention. 

“Okay,” I say a little more confidently before leaning in to kiss him again. Jean easily reciprocates, moving his mouth against mine, running the hand on my hip up and down my side until I’m practically shivering under his touch, unbuttoning the fly of my pants… 

Wait. 

“J-jean,” I gasp once it kicks in - he pulls his hand back immediately. 

“Shit, s-sorry,” he says, sitting up until we’re kneeling to face each other, “I-I thought maybe we could...but if you don’t want to, we won’t.” 

Jean reaches for one of my hands then and I gladly give it to him, letting him run his thumb across my knuckles. I hum. 

“I...I really want to,” I admit, squeeze his hand tighter, “I just...I’ve never even…” 

“Hey, it’s okay. We can go slow, if you want,” he says, squeezing my hand back. I look back up and we smile at each other, unphased until Jean starts giggling wildly. 

“What’s so funny?” I ask as he raises his other hand to bite down on his knuckle so his laughter won’t get too loud. I nudge him in the shoulder so he’ll respond. 

“Nothing, nothing! I swear!” he giggles harder, “this is just so cliche - sneaking into my room, making out like teenagers, trying to keep quiet so we don’t wake up the neighbors.” I start giggling along with him. Suddenly, Jean pulls me towards him until I’m back straddling his hips - I place both hands on his shoulders to steady myself from the sudden motion. He’s still giggling, we both are, but he doesn’t let that stop him from leaning up and kissing me hungrily. Our lips slide together and our teeth clack against each other as we try to kiss and laugh at the same time. Until, of course, Jean reaches one hand around my back to squeeze my ass through the rough fabric of my jeans. 

“Mm,” I half hum, half moan at the contact, prompting Jean to try it again. And again. And another time for good measure before he moves to unbutton my pants and I start kissing him more with more and more urgency. 

“Let’s get these off, yeah?” he mumbles against my mouth and I nod eagerly, lifting my hips and shimmying until my jeans are lying on the floor and Jean’s hands are back on my thighs. I roll my hips, eager to test the lack of restriction taking off my pants offers, and I am not disappointed. Jean hisses at the pressure, grabs my hips a little harder, pulls me down until there’s no space whatsoever between the fabric of our boxers. 

“You know what you’re doing, right?” I ask, trying impossibly hard not to moan at the pressure building between us. 

“Course,” he says, finally taking his lips off mine to focus on getting the shirt off me and onto the floor. He quickly goes back to kissing at the exposed skin, leaving a trail of kisses and bites down my neck and chest and stopping just below my collar bone to suck a dark red mark into the skin. I groan, fisting a hand in his hair to urge him on. I want him to leave marks all over my skin. I want to wake up every day and see myself in the mirror, covered in bites and bruises. I want the world to know I’m his, and he’s mine. But above all, I want a constant reminder of right now, of the way I feel in this moment, in case things go to hell tomorrow. “Please,” I whisper after he’s left what I deem an acceptable number of marks across my chesk and neck and stomach, “w-want you.” 

“Anything for you, darlin’,” he smiles, pulling away. I watch as he rummages through the bedside table for lube - probably - until he suddenly bucks his hips to the side, knocking me sideways until I’m sprawled out on my back and Jean is looming over me with a mischievous grin. I giggle because it’s such an immature yet Jean-like thing to do. 

“You ready?” he asks, placing one hand on my cheek and staring lovingly at the patterns he traces out of my freckles. I nod and cover his hand with my own. 

“With you? Always,” I tell him. 

“God, I love you,” he says, and I tell him I love him, too. 

I tell him I love him when he starts prepping me with careful fingers, I tell him I love him when he enters me for the first time, I tell him I love him, I love him, I love him while his body shivers with gratification and pleasure. 

I tell him I love him when both of us start breathing somewhat normally and we find ourselves wrapped in each other’s arms, my head buried in the crook of his neck and his hands tracing abstract patterns across the skin of my back. 

“Stay the night?” he lazily mumbles into my hair, I chuckle. 

“With you? Always.” 

. 

.. 

… 

Remember how I was concerned things would go to hell? Well they did. They went straight to hell. 

I wake up the next morning in much the same position as I fell asleep in, curled around Jean with my head on his chest. But unlike most mornings, it isn’t the sunlight streaming through the blinds or the sounds of Maria getting ready that wake me up. 

It’s the frantic pounding on Jean’s door. 

“Shit,” he hisses when we both startle to consciousness, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. I try catching his gaze to get some answers. Maybe this is normal? Maybe he wakes up like this every day? 

“Kirschtein! Get your ass out here, the police want to see you!” a commanding voice I distantly identify as Erwin’s calls through the door. We both freeze, though I’m not sure if it’s because Erwin’s tone is so intimidating, or because he just mentioned the police. 

“Kirschtein!” he yells again when there’s no immediate answer and we both continue to hold our breaths in fear. Erwin, seemingly tired of waiting, then tells someone in the hall to fetch the key to the room because he doesn’t want to spend money on fixing a broken down door. That seems to spur Jean into action. 

“Under the bed,” he whispers frantically, rolling off the bed and pulling on as many articles of clothing as he possibly can, tossing me my boxers and shirt even in his haste. 

“I thought you said Erwin was okay with the whole gay thing?” I hiss back - which is surprisingly difficult because wriggling into underwear in a state of panic does very little to help keep your voice down. 

“He is, he is! But the police aren’t!” Jean says and grabs me by the shoulders until we’re facing each other properly, chests heaving from fear and the rush of getting clothed so quickly. The doorknob jiggles like a warning bell behind us. “I love you,” he kisses me quickly before pushing me under the bed, just in time for the bedroom door to swing open behind us. 

“Hands above your head,” a new voice says, I can’t see who it is. It probably belongs to the owner of the shiny black loafers though. 

“What are you-” Jean starts to say, but he’s cut off when the officer takes another step closer and pulls something out of his pocket. It jingles, like metal, and I wince at the thought someone could be putting a pair of handcuffs on Jean. 

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law,” there’s a few clicking sounds and an irritated squawk from Jean as the handcuffs are tightened around his wrists. His feet shuffle in front of my head. 

“The hell am I being arrested for?!” he shouts, the handcuffs clinking together from him trying to escape their hold. I hear the officer clear his voice and wait with baited breaths. Yes, tell me. What is he being arrested for? What could he have possibly done wrong? “ _Let me go!_ ” 

“Garrison lodge was vandalized last night,” Erwin says softly but authoritatively, “one of the guests claims you had motive to do so. Several of the staffers, too. Eren said he saw you having a fight with a customer not long after the showcase.” The way Erwin speaks sends shivers down my spine. Cold, calculating, like he’s discussing moves on a chessboard and not the future of one of his employees. I shiver harder when it sinks in...he’s talking about my father. My father, who promised to love me unconditionally but is now trying to steal Jean away from me for a crime he couldn’t have committed. 

“That’s bullshit! I mean, yeah I had a run in with a guest, but I’ve been here all night! Came back right after running into the bastard,” Jean yells; more clanking and jingling from him resisting the handcuffs. In front of me, I watch as the officer moves his feet until he’s practically on top of Jean, pushing him face first onto the bed. 

“You don’t have an alibi, kid,” the officer says, almost as if he wants to believe him, “you don’t have a witness.” 

I want to scream out, _yes! Yes he does! I’m a witness! He’s been here all night making sweet, sweet love to me!_ But that’s a dumb idea, and Jean only made me hide under the bed to protect me - if I blew my cover, it’d all be for nothing. 

But I can’t let them take him away, not after everything, and definitely not when my father is the one making wild accusations just to keep Jean and I apart. So fuck rationality, fuck my safety. If it means Jean doesn’t spend the rest of his summer rotting in a cold jail cell, it’s worth it. 

“Yes,” I cough and squeak, voice weary from disuse, “yes he does.” 

“What the fuck did you say, Kirschtein?” 

“He’s got an alibi,” I say again, a little louder this time. The boots in front of my face stop shifting as Jean does so I assume he must have stopped struggling. I hear him let out a few muttered curses into the mattress above my head. 

“Who said that?” Erwin says and I sigh heavily. This is singlehandedly the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but I do it anyway. I roll out from under the bed so just my upper half is exposed to the officer and resort owner looming over me, their eyes wide with shock. Nervous, I give them a shy wave and an uncomfortable smile which has Erwin hiding his face in his hand and the officer’s jaw dropping. 

“I’ve been here all night,” I tell them. Stupidly. “He has, too.” 

There’s a very awkward moment of silence where we just kind of...stare each other down, the officer and I. He keeps opening and closing his mouth like he’s hoping something will pop out, but I haven’t moved a muscle. I _won’t_ move a muscle until he unlocks the handcuff and releases Jean. 

“Well, that settles it,” Erwin sighs. The cop glances back at the larger man who only nods once, eyes narrowed. Gulping, the officer looks down at the man handcuffed below him and takes a shaky breath in. 

“S-sir...there are still sodomy laws in this state,” he says numbly and I freeze, itching to crawl back under the bed and hide from all of this. Fortunately, Erwin comes to my rescue before I can hermit my way back under the bed frame. 

“You can’t prove they did anything, officer,” he says, Jean and I both sighing with relief, “they probably just got drunk and fell asleep in here.” 

The officer clicks his tongue thoughtfully at this very far fetched and very inaccurate point before reaching into his back pocket and procuring a pair of keys. He leans down and unlocks Jean’s handcuffs, pulling away quickly when Jean practically explodes free from his grip spitting curses and rubbing his wrists angrily. I put one hand on the back of his calf and rub soothing circles over his exposed skin, hoping it’ll calm him down enough so he isn’t arrested for violence against an officer. Jean spares a quick glance at where I’m still sprawled across the floor, nods, and resigns to glaring at the cop instead of flat out punching him. 

“Well,” Erwin coughs, opening the door for the cop in a silent invitation to get the fuck out, “now that that’s settled, I believe we have some paperwork to fill out?” The officer nods and shuffles through the door, Erwin not far behind. Before the door can close, the man sticks his head back through the opening and sighs. “Marco,” I avert my gaze from Erwin’s judgemental gaze, “get back to the lodge. Now.” Ah, that’s right. Erwin and Dad are buddies. And probably both very, _very_ pissed off at all the trouble I’ve caused over the course of a single evening. I grit my teeth and nod at Erwin who simply nods back before closing the door and making his way into the hall, talking amicably with the disgruntled officer. “So I imagine you’ll need a few signatures…” 

“Thank you,” a voice above me croaks and I turn my head so I can look into Jean’s eyes. He leans down and offers me a hand, pulling me out from under the bed and helping me to stand so he can yank me into a crushing embrace. It’s a little awkward with him still sitting on the bed and me standing between his legs, but we make it work. His head ends up nuzzling into my stomach; my hand ends up running through his hair. A pretty good setup, if I do say so myself. 

“I have to go,” I tell him sadly and I wish it was a lie but it’s not. He nods once, squeezes me a little bit tighter. 

“I love you,” he mumbles into my stomach, breath hot through the fabric of my shirt. I blink my eyes to keep from crying, well aware that this is probably the last time I’ll get the chance to hear it from him. 

“I love you, too,” I say, moving my hand in his hair to his jaw and pulling him up enough so I can give him one last kiss. It’s bittersweet. Literally. The sweetness of Jean’s mouth against mine mixes cloyingly with the tears streaming down one of our faces, though I can’t tell whose anymore. I tell myself it doesn’t matter, I should just enjoy what little time I have left with Jean, but it’s hard. It’s so. Fucking. Hard. When all I want to do is curl up against him until we both cave to hunger pains and make our way to the kitchen for breakfast, dancing and laughing all the way. 

“This isn’t goodbye,” Jean says suddenly, standing so we’re eye to eye, “I won’t let this be the end.” 

“I know,” I respond sadly, because I don’t quite believe him. If my parent’s have anything to say about it - and they do - this _is_ goodbye. This is the last time I’ll ever see Jean. 

Jean seems to sense the hesitance behind my response and purses his lips in a mix of pain and irritation before nodding in the direction of the bedroom door. He places a hand on the small of my back, such a familiar feeling after weeks of dancing with him, and leads me into the hallway. We share a sad smile once I’ve stepped out of the room and with one final, longing glance, I turn away. 

. 

.. 

… 

To say my parents went ballistic would be an understatement. They didn’t go ballistic, they went nuclear; screaming and yelling until I was sure I was deaf, shutting me in my room for the entire day, refusing to let me out under any circumstances. I spent most of the day curled up under a mountain of blankets and staring into space, their threats and promises and curses bouncing around my head. _We didn’t raise a pansy… maybe if we take him to church… such a good for nothing degenerate...raised him better than this_. 

Maria tries to comfort me but it’s useless. She comes into my room every few hours with food and water I won’t eat or drink and sits on the bed for a few minutes trying to get me to talk. She leaves when it becomes evident I won’t be speaking. 

I keep this up for days, maybe an entire week. It’s difficult to tell how much time has passed when all I’ve really seen for the past who-knows-how-long is the pattern on the comforter and Jean’s face behind my eyelids. 

. 

.. 

… 

Maria tells me it’s been a week and a half since the bomb dropped, I don’t doubt her. I’ve started coming out of my room for food more often, even talking to my sister occasionally, but I still can’t bring myself to look at my parents. I already know what I’ll see, so what’s the point? 

On one trip to the cafeteria I spot my mom staring at me sadly and worrying her lip between her teeth. I don’t look back at her, instead making my way to the dining hall, grabbing what I can, and jumping back into bed as quickly as possible. 

The next day, she tries to stop me. She holds out her hand once I’ve stepped out of the bedroom and makes like she’s going to hug me. I turn on my heel and walk right back into my prison, uninterested in her sympathy. Or anyone’s sympathy, really. It seems fake, for one, and unnecessary as well. I just need time to get over all of this - to forget I ever even met Jean Kirschtein or loved him. I just need a few more days to put this all behind me. 

_I’ll get over it_ , I tell myself a thousand times that night, _I’ll move on, I just need time_. 

I hate lying to myself. 

. 

.. 

… 

Two weeks after I last saw Jean and I’m finally lured outside by my sister. _It’s almost the end of the summer_ , she says sweetly, pulling me along with her, _you should enjoy it_. I don’t really feel like enjoying it, and the sunlight burns my eyes like crazy after being shut inside for so long, but I let her drag me along on a walk around the green. She tells the occasional anecdote; the time she got a hole in one on the golf course, the time she found a hermit crab swimming in the lake. I listen closely and welcome the distraction. 

“Marco?” she says suddenly. 

“Yeah?” 

“I’m really sorry,” Maria whispers and I nod. She really did try to help me out, and I’m monumentally grateful for her help. I wouldn’t have any time with Jean at all if it weren’t for her constantly lying about my true location to our parents. 

“Me too,” I smile sadly as she grips my hand between two of her own. 

“Tell me about him,” she says, “tell me about Jean.” 

And I do. I spend the next two hours telling her all about Jean. His quick temper, his dancing, his parents, his favorite color, why he always wears socks to bed, everything. And when I’m done, I feel a little better. 

But only a little. 

. 

.. 

… 

By the time the end of summer banquet rolls around, I’ve basically come to accept my fate. I’ve started leaving the room more and more, going about my day like nothing ever even happened. Sometimes I’ll see something that reminds me of my days with Jean - the dance studio, the lawn where he told me about his parents - but now I can only smile bitterly at the memories. Still, it’s better than breaking down at everything. So much better. 

Despite my debatable stability, I’m still not willing to go to the damn banquet. Going means seeing Erwin and probably Reiner and maybe even Jean, if the gods decide they particularly hate me today, and I’m not sure how well I can handle it. But Dad is persistent, reminding me it’s customary to attend the banquet and thank the resort owner _even though_ we’ve already caused him so much trouble this year. That, and the fact I don’t feel like pissing my father off any more than I already have, leads me to the dining hall. 

The banquet is about what I’ve come to expect from the resort; lots of tables piled high with delicate china, a crystal chandelier, and in the background of it all, the stage where I shared my first real dance with Jean. I bite my tongue at the memory, following my mother and father and sister to our table near the back. We take our seats and instantly we’re swarmed by wait staff taking our orders and wielding jugs of water like swords. I chuckle when one of our waiters turns out to be Reiner’s boyfriend, but I stop the second he makes eye contact with me, smiling sadly. 

“Erwin,” my father suddenly stands, turning to the man approaching our table with hand outstretched and ready to shake. The blonde smiles tightly back and offers his own hand in return. 

“Michael,” he responds, shaking his hand stiffly. I wonder if he’s still mad at Dad for making him fill out so much legal paperwork...I hope so, that would be kinda funny. 

“Thank you for having us, as always,” Dad says, voice suddenly awkward and too formal now that he’s picked up on Erwin’s irritation. I try to stifle my laughter at the sight. 

“Of course, any time,” the man says before turning to the rest of the table and nodding at us all with a slight bow, “I hope you enjoy the show.” With that, Erwin walks off to greet the next guests, not bothering to look back at our table. My father huffs. 

“That faggot better not be dancing,” he mutters under his breath, low enough that only our table should hear, but loud enough to make me wince. Maria throws me a sympathetic look which I hardly catch, too busy fiddling with the fabric of the tablecloth to notice. I do notice when she grabs my hand in solidarity though. I squeeze her hand under the table, a silent thank you for her support. 

“Michael, not now,” my mother sighs and places one delicate hand on her husband’s shoulder, “let’s just enjoy the performances.” My father snorts, turns and glares at me once, then shifts in his seat so he can see the stage just as the lights begin to dim. 

A single spotlight illuminates the center of the platform and the crowd falls silent, eager for the show to start. In reality, it’s just a few of the staffers demonstrating their various skills, so I’m not really sure why everyone gets so excited about it but it tends to be the highlight of the summer season. A man in the audience coughs and it echoes in the huge room, only drowned out by the sounds of a man bounding up the stairs and rushing into the spotlight. 

“Good evening,” Erwin begins his customary speech, which I immediately tune out. It’s the same every year. _Thank you for coming, please enjoy, we have very talented workers, yada yada yada_. 

Erwin jumps back off the stage and I watch in semi-interested silence as the first performer takes her place. The local guitar instructor, she introduces herself as, before picking up a simple acoustic model and beginning her song. There doesn’t appear to be any words to her tune, so I zone out fairly quickly - only focusing back on the stage once she’s being ushered off by an assistant and the sound of applause. The stage goes dark again; I stir my water with the straw they gave me, watching the ice cubes tumble in the current because it’s much more interesting than the empty stage. 

That is, of course, until Jean steps into the spotlight. 

I try not to make it obvious that I’m staring, but who am I kidding of course I’m staring. He looks exactly the way he did when I first laid my eyes on him: same black t-shirt, same cocky smile, same Jean. I sigh at the familiarity of it. 

Jean gestures for someone backstage, not urging them forward, but holding out a hand as if he wants them to wait. He nods a few times at whoever he’s conversing with before stepping to the edge of the stage and clearing his throat. 

“Uh, greetings,” he says, cocky smirk replaced with the faintest blush, “I’m gonna need a volunteer for this one. Someone who knows how to dance.” 

My face flushes bright red and I’m almost certain Jean can see it from the stage. As if summoned telepathically, he turns his head until he’s look straight at me, amber eyes glittering under the spotlight. He smiles even wider - if that’s even possible - and leaps right off the edge, startling a few of the patrons sitting up front. Half the women in the room wave their arms to get his attention shouting, _me! me! I volunteer!_ but Jean ignores them completely, weaving through tables and waiters until he’s standing right in front of our table. 

I hear my dad snapping the stem of his wine glass, my mother gasping at the shards flying everywhere, my sister laughing at the irony. I can practically hear the gods in charge of making my life suck giggling: _and fuck you in particular, Marco Bodt_ , but for once I couldn’t care less if they want to ruin everything for me; if they want to dangle Jean in front of me like the damn forbidden fruit. I’d rather have Jean, as forbidden and frightening as our relationship is, than nothing at all. 

“May I have this dance?” he drawls, bowing low and offering his hand. I let out a single bark of laughter and grab it eagerly. Jean pulls me up until we’re chest to chest, smiles at me then my dad, and begins leading me back towards the stage. 

It starts as a walk, just us slowly making our way through the tables and chairs, but the closer we get the faster our legs seem to carry us. By the time we’re only a few feet from the stage we’re sprinting. And then we’re bounding up the steps, hand and hand, completely oblivious to the tantrum my father is throwing in the back of the room. 

Jean smiles and pulls me closer once we find ourselves at centerstage before nodding encouragingly to whoever it was backstage. I turn and see Reiner behind the curtain. He throws the pair of us a big thumbs up and turns to something I can’t see, fiddling with some buttons. 

“Ready to dance?” Jean says, tugging me even closer as the music starts. 

“With you?” I laugh, beginning to step around him in the movements we’ve practiced time and time again, “always.” 

Jean laughs back and for the next two minutes, it’s all I really hear. So while Jean listens to the music, leads me around the stage in a weird half-mambo like dance, I listen to his laugh. I don’t hear the music or the yelling or the crowd applauding our performance, only Jean’s gorgeous laugh ringing around in my head. I’ve loved that laugh since day one, and I have a feeling I’ll never really stop loving it; it’s just too pure and wonderful and affectionate. When we’re done dancing, it’s still all I can hear. 

“Thank you,” Jean whispers into my ear once we’ve come to a standstill at the center of the stage, me leaning into the hand around my waist and staring lovingly at the face suspended above my own. 

“Anytime,” I tell him, and I mean it. This is how I want to spend the rest of my life, staring at Jean, dancing with him, learning and loving and laughing and not having to hide who I am from anyone. 

The applause around us has yet to die down and I realize that it’s in part because Jean and I haven’t left the stage yet and partly because Reiner still hasn’t turned off the music. It’s not the same song as the one we just danced to, but something more upbeat, peppy. Definitely more dancy. We exchange a curious eyebrow raise before cocking our heads to locate Reiner who’s...not where he was last time I checked. Backstage is totally empty. I pout in confusion, even as Jean helps me stand to my full height and joins me in looking for our friend. 

“Hey everybody!” Reiner suddenly calls from the floor in front of us. We whip our heads to locate him, standing proudly in front of the mass of tables. “It’s a celebration. Let’s dance!” With that, Reiner lets out a loud _whoop_ and grabs a woman sitting near him, pulling her up until she has no choice to dance with the big lug. A few of her friends join in, pushing aside the tables and chairs so they can move. 

Slowly but surely, the rest of the room falls in, moving towards the front and dancing along to the music blaring from either side of the stage. Jean turns to me and smiles at this new development. He leans down in an exaggerated bow and leads me off the stage to join the dancers below us. 

Dancing with Jean has always been great but this? God, just this free, no judgement dance we’re doing in the center of the crowd feels better than anything. There aren’t any moves to memorize, no parents to worry about, just Jean and me and the music. 

At the bridge of the song, Jean takes my hand and twirls me out and in, dipping me back once I’ve spun right back into his chest. I laugh. He laughs. Everything is good. No, everything is _perfect_. 

“Marco!” I hear my dad calling for me and the illusion is shattered. Jean helps me straighten up and we both turn to face the wrath of Michael Bodt. I absently note Jean never removes his hand from my waist though, and I lean into his touch, aching for support. 

“Dad, please don’t,” I sigh tiredly when he comes barrelling through the tide of dancing guests and waiters. He stops just short of Jean and I, eyes narrowing at the arm around my waist. 

“Get back to the lodge _now_ ,” he hisses and I can tell he’s trying desperately not to lose his cool in front of so many people. I lean away and grab Jean’s other hand. 

“Dad, please,” I try again. I can see my mom making her way through the crowd with Maria at her heels, but neither of them seem angry and neither of their sights are locked on me. 

“Michael, just...drop it,” Mom says once she’s pulled up next to him, placing one hand on his bicep and squeezing. Maria comes to stand on his other side and does similarly. 

“Dad, stop,” she says, flashing him the puppy dog eyes. 

“I don’t want him anywhere near these people, Maria,” Dad says, yanking his arm away from the girl and doing likewise with the arm held by my mother. Both women jump back a bit at the motion, but they don’t leave. 

“Michael, he’s happy. If this is what he wants, who are we to stop him?” my mother coos and hands her husband off to Maria who gladly leads Dad away from the dance floor so he can have his meltdown elsewhere, preferably out of the public eye. 

Mom turns to regard Jean and I with a sad smile, and I gape in astonishment at her sudden change of behaviour. 

“I’ve been...doing some research,” she explains, coughs awkwardly into her fist, “and though I really don’t approve of this lifestyle, I’m not...I’m not going to stop you. I’ve seen how unhappy you’ve been these past few weeks, Marco. I-I couldn’t stand seeing you like that. I just...we want you to be happy. Both of us. Even if your father doesn’t realize it yet, he will one day.” She stops talking with tears in her eyes and I reach forward to crush her against me, thankful and amazed and did I mention _thankful_ for her change of heart. It takes a lot of self control not to cry along with her, but I manage, instead opting to hold her to me in a bruising hug and whispering thank you’s and declarations of love into the top of her head. 

“And _you_ ,” she says once she’s finally pulled away, tears still spilling down her face and voice wavering. She jabs one threatening finger at Jean, “you better treat my son right, you hear?” 

Jean nods frantically, eyes wide with shock and confusion from suddenly being accepted then threatened immediately after. 

“Y-yes, ma’am!” he says and I roll my eyes when he salutes nervously. 

“Good,” she sniffs, wipes a few more tears away, “now if you don’t mind, I’m going to go yell at your father.” 

Mom releases me and stomps away, following the path of confused patrons carved out by Maria and my father. I pity the man; anyone who’s about to see the wrath of Elizabeth Bodt has my sincere apologies. 

“So, what now?” Jean says and I turn to look him in the eyes, big dopey smile stretching across my face. I close the space between us immediately and fling my arms around his neck. He easily catches me, spinning us around and around while we laugh at our good fortune. I nuzzle into the crook of his neck, intent on hearing every single chuckle and worshipping it for all it’s worth. 

“I don’t know,” I say sincerely once my feet are touching the ground, looking up to catch his eyes. I know I’ve said it a million times, but they really are beautiful. 

“Well I have a few ideas,” he purrs, leaning forward until our foreheads are touching. I smile and close the gap entirely, pressing my lips lightly to his. 

“I’m sure you do,” I tell him once I’ve pulled away. As much as I’d love to jump him here and now, it probably wouldn’t be received well by the guests dancing around us. Guess I’ll have to save my frantic kisses and eager hands for later then. Bummer. 

“Would you dance with me?” Jean says with a smirk, pulling away and gesturing back towards the floor of jumping and twirling men and woman. 

“With you?” I press another quick kiss to his cheek, smiling when he only tightens his hand around my own. 

“ _Always_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays!


End file.
